Smarty
by hyperempathie
Summary: "Nathan," his girl's voice comes through muffled, like if he was underwater, and of course it's her. It's always her.


Nathan knows he's fucked up. It's a very clear vision in his mind, the words stark against the white of his ceiling, staring down at him. He knows he hasn't showered in days, that his dorm room smells like stale pot and that he's wearing the same sweatpants and T-shirt he's worn all week. It's just… he's too heavy to lift himself off the floor, too fucking wobbly and weak to drag his ass into the shower or outside for fresh air. Instead, he's lying on his floor, staring up at the ceiling, breathing stale pot smoke. His face feels numb. His phone's empty, discarded somewhere in the mess of sheets and clothes on his bed.

It's been like this for days, and the thing that started it all wasn't even that catastrophic. A few days ago, in the Blackwell halls, he couldn't notnotice the barely hushed half-whispers-half-hisses of his peers, shit like: Probably on crack, Total fucking nutjob, Nothing without daddy's bank account. Now, thinking back, he can't even be certain that wasn't his mind playing tricks on him, his own inner thoughts manifesting outside of him, behind him, all around him. Regardless of who or what it was, it was enough to send him barrelling back to his dorm, shoving anyone in his way and locking himself in there. He'd rolled the world's ugliest joint and smoked it until he was too high to think. Then he slept for 12 hours. Rinse and repeat for three days.

The floor is comforting, he notes, it's straightening his back in a way he never does himself, stretching out his muscles a bit. It feels good to be down there, like a bug or a dust bunny, not quite important, not quite visible. It feels like the world is happening above him, and he's just watching from the comfortable flatness of polished hardwood. He wishes he could hide under the bed forever, like the monsters he was scared of as a kid. Those monsters would be way better company, he thinks, than some of the people he's met. Do those people see him the same way?

Once the Tylenol he took earlier kicks in, that's the real calm. It's his heavy body sinking into the soft, warm earth, his brain somewhere up on the ceiling and looking down. He's got pupils like two big black craters, his eyes are shiny marbles. Is this what everyone means when they call him strung out? His mouth feels numb, only the dull throb of his bitten lip is there.

It would suck if someone were to come in, it would totally ruin the high of being so low if that loud knocking on the door was a person. The sound is so intense it makes him wince.

"Nathan," his girl's voice comes through muffled, like if he was underwater, and of course it's her. It's always her.

"Nathan, I will break your door down if you don't open it in less than a minute," she puts on her best assertive voice, and with anyone else, it would work. Nathan takes his sweet time though, sitting up slowly and dragging a hand lazily down his face. Fuck, he can't even feel it.

"Hang on," he says, though he's not even sure if she can hear him, "gotta get myself outta this noose."

It's a joke. They both know it's a joke, but neither of them are laughing. He stands up and stumbles over to the door, clumsy and sedated. He knows she'll wait.

When he opens it, Victoria just stands there, they're kind of staring at each other and doing nothing else. Vic is frowning, there's these two wrinkles in between her pretty eyebrows, and the corners of her mouth are turned down, like a kid that broke its favourite toy. It kinda makes him feel guilty.

"Nathan," she says, any assertive anger in her voice replaced with concern, and she immediately reaches her hand out, "Can I come in?"

His arms feel like they're made of stone when he reaches over and grabs Victoria's hand, squeezing gently. It's partially affection, partially checking if those muscles still work. He doesn't say anything, just leads her inside and she kicks the door closed gently with the heel of her brogue. It's a tiny little click noise, like a marble falling to the floor. It feels tense, it feels humid and heavy and Nathan feels the way Victoria looks at him. That piteous look, that fucking apologetic look like he's a sick dog in one of those commercials his mom always cries during. His mom cried the last time she saw him. Victoria won't, though. He finally gathers the courage to turn around and face her, and they stand in the middle of his room.

She's quiet, just rubbing his thumb with hers and looking at his blown out pupils like she'll fucking fall inside. So he tries to speak, and his voice feels like broken glass.

"Sorry I…"

He's not sure how to continue. Sorry I can't function like a normal person for more than a week. Sorry you keep having to see me like this, sorry about breaking shit when I'm angry, sorry about the drugs and my dad and me. Sorry about me.

He's got a head full of thoughts, and they're all rattling around in there with no order or reason, bouncing against his skull in tiny little pangs of an oncoming headache. What's the comedown from a week-long high like?

"It's okay," is all she says. Now that they're close together, he can smell her perfume and her shampoo and her cigarettes. He sees her looking down at her feet, and it makes him feel even guiltier so he taps his finger against her chin to tip it up, and she's right back to staring at his eyes. It didn't occur to him how bad he must look and smell. Probably greasy-haired, with dark circles and sweaty clothes, bloodied lip and bloodshot eyes. Like a fucking inpatient.

Victoria seems to know not to ask what's going on in his head, can probably tell that he wouldn't be able to verbalize it properly. So she just leans in real close, wraps her arms around his neck. It takes Nathan's body a while to wake up, for his hands to raise and hug her middle. When he does, though, he doesn't let go. They stand there for a while, Victoria isn't complaining about how bad he smells nor is she chastising him. It feels good, it feels like coming up to shore after being stranded on a boat with no land in sight.

"God, Vic," he whispers, nose buried in her bleached hair, trying to engrave her scent into his memory. He wonders if that's a creepy thing to do, "Thanks for coming."

"I'm here," with the way her face is pressed against his shoulder, her makeup smears onto his dirty white shirt, "I told you."

She stands on the tips of her toes, tilts her head a little and presses a tiny, tentative kiss to his lips, testing the waters, checking his breathing. When she begins to pull back, he grabs her face and kisses her for real, deep and strong and determined. There it is, something for his brain to latch on to, to show him what's real. Victoria fucking Chase, green-eyed and pretty, shorter than him, with warm hands and soft lips that always get lipstick on his face, standing in his room, humming against his mouth like she's singing him a lullaby.

When their mouths part, he leans up again and gives her a few tiny pecks, making her smile and raise her eyebrows in faux curiosity. She kisses him again, short but sweet. Then she goes back to standing normal, just a bit below eye-level. Nathan brushes her bangs to the side because he knows she doesn't like it when they get in her face.

"Wanna take a shower? I'll order some takeout," Victoria says, playing with his hand and entwining their fingers together. That sad look is gone, he notices, she's not looking at him like she's sorry for him or like he's a car crash. It makes him sigh in relief. She has this way of making him motivated to do the very basics.

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good," the ache in his throat makes Nathan realize he hasn't said a word in days. He doesn't thank her again because he knows she won't accept it.

Instead, he takes his shirt off, shrinks a bit when he feels Vic's stare. She notices.

"Oh, no, sorry, I just," and his eyes dart up to meet hers, "You look good," she smiles something shy and affectionate. It's only a common look on her when they're alone. Then again, he supposes he's the same way.

"Oh."

He takes the rest of his clothes off except his briefs and walks past her, into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The bathroom light buzzes loud and obnoxious, or maybe it's just his head. Next to him, the mirror taunts him, and he turns his head to make eye-contact with himself. Christ, he looks like shit. He's sure he's seen a dude looking just like him in Walking Dead, his dirty hair a mess from taking his shirt off, red and purple underneath his eyes and pupils nearly covering his iris entirely. An after picture in an anti-drug ad.

Hearing Victoria's voice from the other room shakes him from his thoughts.

"You want Chinese or Indian?" she half-yells.

"Chinese is good," he tries to yell back, hoping she hears him. His throat aches even more.

Finally, he takes off his briefs and climbs into the shower. A ceremonial end for all his breakdowns, washing the sickness down the drain. The water feels weird on his skin at first, too cold and then too warm, until he settles on the too-warm option. He shampoos three times for good measure, washes his body as thoroughly as he can without losing balance, because everything gets blurry when he bends down. It feels like, he thinks, red and black should be running down the drain. But the water is clear. The steam is making him breathe deep, and he can't deny it feels good to finally get the sweat and grime off.

He's alone in there, though, the sound of water barely drowning out the silence that's making his head feel like it's going to explode. He wishes he'd kept the door open or something. It makes him hurry.

By the time he comes out, the whole bathroom is foggy, and he watches his blurry face in the now-matte glass of the mirror. He half-consciously writes Vic's name in the glass, dries himself with a towel and then wraps it around his middle.

The air of the dorm feels cold when he comes out, makes him erupt in goosebumps, but he's sated when he sees Victoria sitting cross-legged on his bed, eating noodles from one of the few boxes of takeout that were next to her. Did he really take that long?

When she notices him, she pats the spot next to her and smiles at him.

With how she's sitting, her skirt rides up and Nathan can see her black underwear underneath her tights. He doesn't mention it, though, knows she'd get embarrassed, but he admires the sight in the same way he admires seeing her in the morning with bad breath and puffy eyes. Now, though, she's made up all pretty, something shimmery in the middle of her eyelid and wearing her eyeliner in that one shape he can't quite name that makes her look like a fucking dream. He notices those green eyes look at him with worry again, feels them on his skin before he feels her hand grab his arm.

"Nathan," and she's staring at his bicep. Oh. Right.

The ridges that are angry-red from the hot water, not quite scabbed over yet, not quite scars yet, just split skin halfway down to his elbow in perfect horizontal tally marks. He hates how she frowns when she looks at them. Feels like he's done something to hurt her.

"Sorry," is all he can say. Not sure there's anything else to say. But she shakes her head and plants a kiss on his shoulder, careful not to touch any of the inflamed skin.

"Need to clean these, Nate," she says, and he can tell she's trying not to look sad. It makes that sick feeling come back, guilt-laden and heavy with shame. They sit like that for a while, not really doing anything. Victoria's stroking the skin of his bicep gently, and she looks like she's thinking. That tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows is back, and when she relaxes her features again eventually, he sees her foundation has creased there. He doesn't tell her.

"I'll clean these for you," she says finally, "Won't take a minute."

She's right. After a few painful swipes with disinfectant and a way-too-thorough bandaging, he's good as new. At least, that's what Vic says, observing her work.

"Feels a bit tight," he says, lifting his arm slowly and flexing his bicep a bit, just to see if he can. Aside from the sting this causes, the bandage keeps him from really showing off too much.

"Well, you're not gonna be flexing on Instagram for a few days," she jokes, "At least not in the literal sense. Doctor's orders," and she ruffles his wet hair with her fingers.

He shoves at her halfheartedly.

"That really hurt, Natey," she says and exaggerates a pout.

"Sorry, Icky Vicky," it's quiet and too-serious sounding for the quip that it is, and it takes Vic a moment, a beat of silence, before her eyes widen.

"You asshole!" she says through laughter, swatting at him. Her red cheeks make him laugh, too.

The nickname sounds foreign when he says it, something he used to call her when they were kids, fighting in his parents' yard over stupid shit. He's sure he hasn't said it since they were in the 6th grade, but he remembers her reaction was just as funny back then.

His laughter makes her visibly more secure, that sad look from before replaced with amusement. When he notices, Nathan wraps an arm around her shoulder and she raises her eyebrows and looks at him.

"Nope," she says, "Never forgiving you."

Now it's his turn to pout, and with how tired and wrecked he looks it nearly seems genuine, so Vic is quickly peppering kisses onto his face. Anything to get him to stop looking so sad. He breaks out in a grin.

"Dammit," she whispers, feigning frustration. They give each other tiny kisses for a bit, something sweet and gentle, before Victoria wraps her arms around Nathan's neck and kisses him the way she wants to. She's serious about it, too, humming against his mouth like always and nibbling gently at his bottom lip.

It's always warm, being together like that, a secure feeling that washes away any guilt or insecurity, and Nathan's arms find her middle and hold her close like she'll disappear if there's even a quarter of an inch of air between them.

It must be weird, he thinks, for Victoria to have to deal with someone like him. He wonders for a second if it's hard and if it burdens her the same way his own mental state burdens him, but that thought is quick to dissipate. Because Victoria is blunt and honest, and Victoria wouldn't stay if she didn't want to. Yeah. They stop kissing and she's looking up at him with her green eyes and they kinda look like twin lakes, or something. He places a peck on that worried little crease between her eyebrows, and feels her hands squeeze gently at his shoulders. So he moves down, and presses pecks along her jawline and neck, unbuttoning the first few buttons of her shirt until he reaches the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

"Vicky," he teases, smiling and sounding quite a bit mischievous, "I'm gonna give you a hickey."

Again it takes her a moment before she starts laughing, and so does he, at the stupid little rhyme. She starts playing with his hair again, giggling carelessly, and he nibbles along her skin and sucks an angry red mark at what he thinks is the perfect spot. And then another one, slightly smaller, slightly lower. The feeling of Victoria's hands rubbing gently at his scalp make him hum against her warm skin, and he doesn't even mind that he can taste a bit of her perfume.

Once he decides he's left a perfect trace of deep red marks, he looks up at her, wet hair falling in his face. She flashes him a grin and it's the cutest shit he's ever seen, so he leans up even further, presses his chapped, bitten lips to hers. That same feeling of coming up to shore is back, and he holds her tight with his arms around her middle, anchoring her in place.

If he could do one thing for the rest of his life, he thinks, it would be this. Kissing his girl on a fucking terrible day, high out of his mind with his hair dripping wet.


End file.
